Exit Wounds
by tortallanrider
Summary: A collection of one-shots about people leaving, and the wounds they leave behind.
1. Private Pain

**Private Pain [Alanna**

_**Disclaimer:**__ I don't own anything that you recognize._

Alanna never considered herself to be an expert on love or anything having to do with it. In fact, she had more than once stated that she wanted nothing to do with love at all. As she sat inside of her shaman's tent in the Great Southern Desert, however, she realized that she'd gotten more of an education than she realized.

In her eight years of knight training, Alanna had learned many things. She had learned the obvious: fighting arts, mathematics, etiquette, etc. During her visits to the Inn of the Dancing Dove, she grew knowledgeable in less-than-legal activities, and fighting that no one would ever teach her at the palace. In the last few months of her training, a friend's mother had taught her how to be ladylike, as Alanna had been masquerading as a boy for almost half her life. She was sure there was more, but she wasn't thinking clearly. Alanna liked to learn, she took almost every opportunity given to do so. But love? Love wasn't something she wanted an education in.

She blushed at the memory of the first time she had made love. He had been so kind and gentle, sweet and loving. Alanna couldn't imagine a better first time than with him. How was she supposed to know that he would end up breaking her heart? At seventeen years old, bewitched by moonlight and too-blue eyes, she could hardly have been considered completely sane. Why had no one stopped her? She knew the answer, but wasn't willing to admit it to herself. She wasn't willing to admit that she had wanted to make love to him more than anything in that moment. It was dangerous, and the forbidden fruit is always the most tempting—Alanna, one could say, liked to bend rules.

Goddess, why did it have to _hurt_ so much? Alanna was used to getting hurt. She'd had more bruises, cuts, scrapes, breaks, and wounds than she cared to admit. But flesh wounds (or bone wounds) didn't hurt as much as this did. This wasn't a pain that she could use her Gift to be rid of, either. This was a nagging, dull pain somewhere unknown. All she knew was it hurt too badly to bear. Alanna wasn't a crier, she wasn't very girly. She liked to keep those kind of things locked up. But she was barely containing her tears.

Frustrated, she swore. "I hate him," she muttered. She called him all sorts of nasty names, none of which she meant. After a solid ten minutes of cursing her first love, she collapsed into tears once more. "I'm sorry," she sobbed. "I didn't mean it. Not any of it." Burying her face in her pillow, she whispered words that no one else would hear, "Please come back. I changed my mind."

Despite her knighthood and masquerade, Alanna of Trebond and Olau was still a girl. She had her monthlies like one and had butterflies in her stomach when he looked her way. She was a girl, through and through. Nothing in any of the realms would change that. This was a pain she might have to bear a thousand times over, a pain that may never go away. But it was not a scar that would be visible to all. It would be a hidden scar, one that would be prone to opening for no apparent reason. A scar that would ache when she smiled; ache when she looked at him.

Alanna gathered all her strength and wiped her eyes. "No," she said quietly. "I won't." She sighed and convinced herself that she was done crying. This was a scar, a pain she would carry privately. No one else needed to know; no one needed to pity her. Alanna was strong—she had killed men with her sword. She had seen death; she had been to that frightening place between life and death. She had vanquished spirits. If anyone had the strength to overcome a fresh wound, it was her. "He's not worth it," she reminded herself. Even so, she couldn't help but touch the pregnancy charm around her neck. She let herself wonder for one brief second what it would be like to allow herself to carry his child. It would be a beautiful child, she reasoned. He was so handsome and she wasn't bad herself. Quickly she snapped herself from her reverie. "He's not worth it," she stated firmly.

Alanna got to her feet and stretched. She gathered her riding things and walked out of the tent to where her golden mare, Moonlight, was tethered. "Want to go for a ride?" she cooed, stroking her horse's muzzle. Moonlight nudged her owner. Alanna smiled and threw tack onto the mare. Within minutes, she had mounted. Once she was a safe distance from the village, Alanna nudged her mount into a gallop. A smile spread across her face as Moonlight's blonde mane fluttered in the breeze. She closed her eyes and let the wind carry all thoughts of him away.

_Goodbye Jonathan._


	2. Shh

**Shh **– _Thayet_

Thayet _jian_ Wilima quietly shut herself in her room, wishing not for the first time she could ward her room to prevent anyone from listening. She locked the door, wincing at the sound. Too many people had keen ears – people who would wonder why she was locking the door. Maybe they would understand, but it was more likely someone would come kicking down the door, demanding to know what she thought she was doing. She smiled to herself. _Every warlord's daughter needs that kind of protection._ Her mind drifted to her traveling companions… and friends.

Buri. Her longtime friend and bodyguard, who had put up with Thayet's exuberances and sulks, with whom she had shed too many tears recently. The burly Coram, who Thayet couldn't really call a friend, but made her feel safe and appreciated. He was fatherly and kind in a way her father never had been. Liam. She couldn't quite figure him out, but he seemed to like it that way. She supposed the Shang Dragon had to be mysterious, like a dragon. She could tell that he frustrated both Buri and her other companion, Alanna the Lioness. The stories about the woman did not measure up to the real person. Tales about the girl who disguised herself for eight years to earn her shield drifted into Sarain, and Thayet had to admire her. She knew her mother would have approved too. Alanna quickly became a friend, something for which Thayet was grateful. Especially now.

The young woman dropped onto her bed and swallowed hard, making a last attempt to fight back the tears threatening to spill from her hazel eyes. _He isn't worth crying over,_ she told herself. _You didn't even like him that much._ She swallowed again, berating herself to be strong. She had not made it this far spending her nights crying. But the tears came anyway, flowing in rivers down her cheeks. She pressed a pillow to her face to muffle to sobs. Her whole body shook with tears. Tears for her mother, tears for the country she called home, and tears for her father. The father who she had never gotten along with, the father who wanted to marry her off like some prize. The father she and her mother dreamed of escaping from. The father she blamed for her mother's suicide. But even with all of that, he was her father. And she was an orphan.

She heard her mother's voice in her head. _Shh, my darling. It's all right. Shh…_ she could almost feel Kalasin's hands smoothing her hair, just like they had when she cried as a small child. _You're a brave girl. Don't cry. Shh… _Slowly but surely, she could breath without gasping, and the tears slowed to a trickle. _That's my girl. Hush, now. It will all be all right._ Thayet swallowed, removing the pillow from her face. She lay down, tucking her knees up toward her chest. "I miss you," she whispered into the empty room, closing her eyes.

A sharp knock came at the door, startling her out of her sleep. Looking around, Thayet found it was dark now. She must have fallen asleep. "Thayet!" Buri's voice sounded anxious. "Thayet!" She rolled off the bed and padded to the door, opening it. There stood a worried-looking Buri, a collectedly concerned Liam, and a tired Alanna. "Why was it locked?" Buri demanded. "Do you have any idea how much danger you're in?" Her dark eyes snapped.

Liam had softened his look of concern to one of amusement. "She's clearly fine now, Buri. I think Princess Thayet can take care of herself."

Buri made an aggravated noise. "Shh," Alanna snapped, rubbing her violet eyes. "When you wake me up in the middle of night, at least have the courtesy to not give me a _headache._"

Thayet smiled. "Really, I'm fine," she said. "Go back to bed. I'm sorry for worrying you."

"Good." Alanna stretched and waved. "See you in a few hours."

"Good night," Liam said with a nod to the Sarens, moving off in the same direction. Once they were out of earshot, Buri fixed her dark eyes on her mistress.

"Is everything all right?" the small K'mir wanted to know.

"It is now."


	3. Hate vs Love

**Hate vs. Love **–_Jonathan_

He hated her.

His Royal Highness Prince Jonathan of Conté was not a hateful person. On the contrary, he was rather caring. Most nobles shunned both commoners and the Bazhir: Jonathan spent hours at the Inn of the Dancing Dove in Corus with not just commoners, but thieves, and was now the Voice of the Tribes. He knew he would be king one day, and wanted nothing to unite all of his people in peace and prosperity, and to advance the quality of life for everyone in Tortall.

His Royal Highness Prince Jonathan of Conté did not act rashly. He carefully weighed each and every decision, with few exceptions – so few that it would take some hard thinking to come up with one situation. He was thoughtful and careful, and hated surprises. He tried to plan for surprises, but they managed to sneak up on him anyway.

His Royal Highness Prince Jonathan of Conté was not a temperamental person. He was coolheaded, which would make him a better king. He was not his former squire, who could be set off at almost anything. Jonathan was rational and thoughtful. It took a lot to truly anger him, although he could do a very good impression of himself being angry when it was required of him. His anger was slow to burn, so it took quite a lot to get him truly angry.

His Royal Highness Prince Jonathan of Conté had been raised to be a prince, to be king, to keep his composure. He had been raised by two parents who were very much in love and wanted nothing more for their son than for him to find the happiness they shared. He had seen death and been brought back. He had faced down immortals and knights, and vanquished them both. Most of the major events in his life up until this point had been experienced with the same short redhead with remarkable violet eyes.

The same short redhead with remarkable violet eyes who had caused him to act rashly, to lash out in a fit of temper, who he hated, even as he loved her deeply. No. He did not love her anymore. That was impossible, because he hated her.

He could never hate her.

Not after everything. She had saved his life more than once. She had been constantly in his life for four years. He knew her secret before almost anyone else. They had shared a bed for many nights. He loved her. That was why he wanted to marry her. Because he loved her.

It took all his strength to keep riding away from the Bloody Hawk, away from her. His fingers were tense on the reins as he fought to keep from turning Darkness around, galloping back to her, scooping her in his arms, kissing her, and telling her he forgave her, he was sorry, he had never meant to pressure her, she should take all the time in the world. Darkness tugged at his arms, indicating that he would like his head back, please. Jonathan allowed the reins to slip through his hands, too distracted to care. His companion glanced at him with concern, but said nothing.

_What have I done?_ Jonathan wondered as they rode farther and farther away. Memories of her flashed through his mind: the first time they'd met, when Ralon was torturing her; her saving him from the Sweating Sickness; their encounter with the Ysandir; the first time he kissed her, during the Tusaine War; the time she almost drowned; the first time they made love, on her seventeenth birthday; the look on her face as she stumbled out of the Chamber of the Ordeal; the look on her face when Roger revealed her to be a girl; the look on her face when she killed Roger; the way she felt when he bid her goodbye as she came south; the feeling of seeing her again after so long; the way she held him after his Rite of the Voice; and finally, the anger on her face when she learned he had ordered her things ready. He heard her voice in his mind, teasing him, yelling at him, saying the most inane things to him… suddenly, every word was precious. He wanted to turn around and go back to make her say something, _anything_ to help him remember.

_What if I never see her again?_ He shook his head. That was impossible. She was bound to the king of Tortall. Should they go to war, she would have to return. She was a knight like any other. Well, not really. Because she was a girl, something no knight had been in one hundred years. It made her unique, it made her special, it made her _her._ It was part of why he loved her, why he wanted to marry her so desperately.

_"You've been spoiled by all those fine Court ladies. It never entered your mind that I might say no!"_ Her violet eyes flashed in his mind as he recalled her words. His horse fidgeted underneath him when his body tensed. Jonathan tried to relax, if only to calm Darkness down. His desire to turnaround became stronger – he had to settle this matter with her. _"I _refuse_ to marry you! Find yourself someone more feminine, Jonathan of Conté!_"

_Maybe I will,_ he thought nastily. _I don't need you, Alanna of Trebond and Olau. _He would find himself another Court lady, one better suited to the role of being queen. She wouldn't be Alanna – no one could. She would be sweet and kind, loving and attentive. Alanna would return eventually to find him happily married, possibly with children, at the very least happily betrothed, and she would weep for him. But he would not cry for her. No. He was the Crown Prince of Tortall. He cried for no one.

Not even lost loves.

Not even lost best friends.


	4. Regretfully Yours

**Regretfully Yours**

"Where are we going?" Princess Josiane of the Copper Isles asked as Jonathan led her from the ballroom. He glanced at her over his shoulder and winked. A slow smile spread across her face and he walked a little faster. Josiane checked behind her, noticing how a few women eyed her jealously. She tossed her long blonde hair. Jonathan slipped out a concealed doorway and led her down a darkened hallway. A blue fire sprouted from his hand to illuminate their path. Josiane opened her mouth to ask again, but quickly closed it and smiled to herself. She had a feeling where this was leading.

Around a few corners, the hall was still darkened. Jonathan stopped, throwing the fire into a sconce. Josiane crinkled her nose to see dust particles floating in the air. "Where are we?" she asked, tracing designs on the dusty walls.

"Nowhere," Jonathan answered, swiftly grabbing her by the waist and pressing her back against the wall. He moved in to kiss her, but she turned her head away. He reared back. "What is it?"

Josiane glanced down, lips pursed ever so slightly. "I do not want you to get the wrong _idea_ about me," she murmured. She looked up at him from under her long, dark lashes. A smile played on his lips. He dropped his mouth to her neck, tracing the line from her shoulder to her ear with kisses. She pulled his body tighter against hers, craving the contact. Jonathan slid one hand underneath her hair, finally kissing her mouth. Josiane's hands found their way underneath his shirt, working their way across the broad expanse of his muscular back. He pressed himself against her and she pulled away.

"What is it?" he asked breathlessly.

"Here?" she wanted to know, crinkling her nose and pursing her lips. "In this dusty hallway?" Jonathan glanced around. He sighed inwardly, knowing her angle. He had no particular interest in taking her back to his room, not when he still associated it with _her_. He twisted her blonde hair around his finger, meeting her eyes.

"We could retire to your rooms, I suppose…" he mused, sliding his hand slowly down her side to lift her skirt ever so slightly. She quickly swatted his hand away; he kissed her slowly to make amends.

"I don't know the way from here," Josiane told him, pressing her hips gently against his and biting her lip.

He grinned. "Fear not, sweet princess." He gallantly kissed her hand. "I shall let no harm come to thee." She giggled, taking his arm as he led her toward the guest wing of the palace.

Later, Jonathan lay in Josiane's bed, staring up at the ceiling. She lay curled against his side, one leg draped possessively over his, one arm tossed over his bare torso. He tried to ignore the strange feeling of her body against his. It was too long, too lean. She smelled wrong, her hair was too long, and she was too _close_. He had forgotten how these Court ladies liked to cuddle. _She_ had always been near enough for him to feel her heat, but never clung to him like a wet shirt. _She_ was content with simply being nearby, whereas these Court ladies seemed to crave validation that he was really in their beds.

Suddenly he felt stifled. He had to get out of here. Gently, Jonathan slid out from under the princess, praying to any god he could think of that she would not awaken. When she merely rolled over, he breathed a sigh of relief and thanked the gods. He made a note to come up with an excuse in the morning, or at least after getting some fresh air. The prince dressed silently, slipping out of her room as quietly as possible. He took back halls to his own rooms, not wanting to draw attention to himself. Jonathan imagined his parents knew of some of his conquests, but there was no need to draw their attention to his most recent one. He also wished to avoid running into anyone who knew – or heard rumors – about his relationship with _her_, lest the feeling in the pit of his stomach turn into full-blown _guilt._

He collapsed onto his bed, staring up at his own ceiling. He had no reason to feel guilty. _She_ had made her feelings quite clear, as had he. There was nothing between them anymore. He could feel free to bed whomever he chose. _She_ laid no claim to him, if she ever had. She refused his proposal and he was free of her, leaving it all behind in the desert sands.

So why did he feel this way? Why did he feel as if he were hurting her? Why could he not erase her picture from his memory, not forget the feeling of her body against his? Why could he not shake the feeling of her disapproving violet eyes? Jonathan rose and crossed to the door connecting his room and the room that would house any future squire he chose. For now it stood empty, as it had since _she_ vacated it months previously. He opened the door gently, as if she were asleep in there. He threw fire to illuminate the room, taking in its emptiness. He glanced at the bed they shared on occasion, the first place he told her he loved her and validated her love for him. He ran a gentle hand across the pillow, smiling to himself. Times seemed simpler then.

Jonathan eased himself into the desk chair, grabbing the paper and quill that remained, the only vaguely personal effects left in the room. He stared at the page for a moment, trying to sort through his thoughts. They came too fast, too detailed for him to write. He briefly considered writing a poem, as he often wrote awful ones and forced her to read them. Smiling at the memory, he imagined her reaction to such a note.

The words came eventually, but words he could never send. Before the ink could dry upon the page, Jonathan tossed it into the fireplace and allowed the blue fire of his Gift to consume his thoughtful words.

_I miss you. Come home, Alanna. I love you. – Jon_


End file.
